Chapter Two

Rome, 1501

Standing in the light that streamed through the skylight, Michelangelo tilted his head to the side and studied the face of the Madonna staring back at him from his easel.

After several moments of intense scrutiny, he decided that she did indeed look a bit too joyous. Picking up his palette, he prepared to rectify the error when he heard a loud knock at the door below.

“Are you home Michelangelo?” asked his apprentice, Paolo.

The artist thought about remaining silent, but decided the place needed cleaning. “Uno momento, Paolo,” he yelled back.

“Hurry, master. I have big news,” the boy exclaimed.

Descending to the first floor, Michelangelo strode to the door and yanked it open.

“Master,” Paolo said, “Everyone in the plaza is talking. They say the Borgias are looking for you.”

“What?” exclaimed the artist. “I have no dealings with them. I think you must be mistaken my young friend.”

“No, master, I am not mistaken. You are the greatest living sculptor, and no one can deny the beauty of the Pieta.”

“Yes, but the Borgias have their court artists. Unless, of course, Cardinal Riario has hired me out to the Holy Father. But then, why should he? If I am doing work for the pope then I cannot be doing work for Riario, and that man wants to keep me all to himself for as long as he can.”

Michelangelo continued, “I think if he had his way, I would be a servant in his palace, painting and sculpting night and day ad maiorem Riaario gloriam.”

Looking out the window, Paolo turned and said, “Master, soldiers and a great carriage are coming up the street slowly. I think they are looking for this house.”

“Well, if they are, you tell them I am very busy.” With that, Michelangelo bounded up the stairs and resumed his consideration of the half-completed Madonna.

“The Borgias looking for me,” he mused. “I wonder what the Holy Father could possibly desire from me.”

For the second time in minutes, a knock on the door interrupted his reverie.

“Can I help you, sir?” he heard Paolo ask.

“Is this the home of the artist, Michelangelo Buonarotti?” he heard a gruff voice ask.

“It is sir, but I’m afraid that he is far too busy at the moment to talk with you.”

“Is he far too busy to refuse a request from Pope Alexander? Get him now before I box your ears, you impudent scamp.”

“There will be no need for threats captain,” Michelangelo said descending the stairs again.

“How may I be of service to His Holiness?”

“Pope Alexander requests the pleasure of your company in the papal apartments. That is all I can tell you. He has sent a carriage for you and asked us to escort you there.” Grabbing his cloak, the artist said, “I am at your service.”

Turning to the boy, he said, “Paolo, after you are done cleaning, you must fend for yourself tonight I am afraid. It is nearly three, and I have no idea when I shall return. Captain, I am at your disposal.”

Climbing into the carriage, Michelangelo thought of all the stories he had heard of Pope Alexander. How he had bribed his way to the papacy then secured his position by packing the Curia with newly minted cardinals, including his own son, Cesare, there only to do his bidding.

His mind racing, he thought about the other stories, the mistresses, the bastard children, and he shuddered. How such a man could rule Holy Mother Church baffled him, but what that man wanted with him went beyond that - it terrified him.

After some 20 minutes, the carriage stopped in front of the papal palace. As Michelangelo stepped down, a young priest, no more than 30 years of age hurried forward to meet him.

“Signor Buonarotti, I am Father Ferrante. I will escort you to His Holiness.”

Entering the palace, Michelangelo and the young priest exchanged pleasantries. “I have been so looking forward to meeting you,” said the priest. “I must confess that every time I gaze upon your Pieta I am moved to tears. That is surely your greatest work.”

“You may be right,” the artist said, “but I truly hope that you are mistaken. After all, I am only 26. I would like to think that my best works are yet to come.”

At a pair of large wooden doors, the priest knocked, and a rich baritone voice from within bade them, “Enter.”

As they did, Pope Alexander VI turned to face them.

The first thing that struck Michelangelo was the intelligence of the pope’s eyes. Dark and brooding, they saw everything - and quite possibly behind everything.

Tall and strikingly handsome, it was easy to credit talk of the pontiff’s many dalliances despite his priestly vow of celibacy.

Michelangelo approached, knelt and when the pontiff offered his hand, he kissed the Ring of the Fisherman.

“Now rise, young Buonarotti. Leave us, Ferrante; Michelangelo and I have much to discuss.” Ringing a bell, the pope ordered the servant who appeared, “Bring us some wine. Signor Buonarotti, is there anything special that you would like?”

“No, Your Holiness. The wine is more than enough.”

When they were alone once again, the pope turned to him and said, “Michelangelo, I have great plans, and I want you to be a part of them. I know your work, and I am inspired by it.”

After a pause, he continued, “I believe that just as I am God’s representative on Earth, placed here to do his bidding, so too are you a representative of Our Lord and Savior.” The pope blessed himself. “In a very real sense, Michelangelo, you are an agent of the Lord, and I believe that your destiny - at least in part - is to serve Holy Mother Church with your gifts.”

“You leave me speechless, Your Holiness,” said the artist.

“You have talent and I believe that you are a good son of the Church. Loyal, faithful, devout and modest. May I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course, Your Holiness.”

“I am given to understand that you never sign your work. Is that true?”

“Generally speaking, it is, your Holiness.”

“Yet you did sign the Pieta, did you not?” he asked laughing.

“Indeed, Holy Father. That is the only piece to which I have ever affixed my name. Shortly after the statue was installed in the Chapel of Santa Petronilla, I went back to see how it looked in the late afternoon light. I heard a group of people talking. They were admiring my work. When one asked who the sculptor was, another answered Solari. I consider myself a modest man, your Holiness, but to hear il Gobbo given credit for my work infuriated me.”

“So what did you do, signore?”

“I returned that night with my tools and broke into the chapel. Visitors the next day were soon made aware that I had sculpted the Pieta - and not that hunchbacked fool.”

The pope applauded as he laughed. “Bravo, Singor Buonaratti. I may disagree with many others here, but I believe that it is possible for a man to be too self-effacing. I am glad that you are not of that ilk.”

“Now to the reason that I asked you here. I am planning to redesign St. Peter’s, and I need your assistance. I want to continue the work begun by Pope Nicholas. To bring my plans to fruition, I need a visionary. I need someone who is not afraid to break with tradition - even as I have done. I need a man who shares my dream of creating a church that will serve as a fitting resting place for the bones of St. Peter - the rock upon which our church is built. Are you such a man, Michelangelo?”

Before the artist could answer, the pope continued, “I think you are, and I am seldom wrong in my assessments of men.”

At that moment, there was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” intoned the pope, and a servant carried an ornate tray into the room with two bottles of wine and a pair of silver goblets. He was followed by a second servant bearing a salver laden with fresh fruit and several types of cured meats.

“We will enjoy our wine on the balcony,” the pope said. The servants nodded and headed for the balcony. After a minute, the pope followed them and the artist fell in line behind him.

They sat at a table overlooking the gardens, and the pope said, “I love this view. It’s so serene. I often come here to escape the politicking that divides the Curia and to reflect upon how best to do God’s work here on Earth.”

“It is a lovely spot,” Michelangelo said, taking in the view and wondering what lay ahead.

“Red or white?” asked the pope, and again, before Michelangelo could respond, the pope answered for him. “Red, I think!”

“You are a man who strives mightily. You spare neither yourself nor your workers when you are creating. Such a man would drink deeply of life, and life is best captured in the richness of a robust Chianti! Am I right signore? Am I right?”

Although he would much have preferred the lighter white on such a warm afternoon, Michelangelo could only nod and say, “We have just met and yet you know me so well, Your Holiness.”

“Now, before I assign you a major commission, I am going to start with something smaller. Something a bit more personal. I hope you understand, signore.”

“Of course,” said Michelangelo although he found the notion of having to prove himself - even to the pope - repugnant.

“Ah, wonderful,” exclaimed the pontiff. “Here is what I was thinking.” And Pope Alexander then began to explain exactly what he wanted Michelangelo to do.

When the pope had finished outlining his plans in broad terms, Michelangelo was simultaneously excited and repulsed.

“So, are you up to the task?” asked the pontiff.

Knowing that his future might well be determined by the next words he uttered, Michelangelo paused.

Gathering his thoughts while trying to marshal his emotions, the artist looked into the pontiff’s eyes, and said simply, “I am yours to command, Your Holiness.”